


The Gift of Breaking

by AnathemaAuthoress



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Christmas Smut, Dirty Talk, Light Bondage, M/M, Miamis, Oral Fixation, PWP, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Spanking, Tickle torture, Top Rick Sanchez, illusion of dubcon, penis candy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 09:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21967078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnathemaAuthoress/pseuds/AnathemaAuthoress
Summary: Miami Rick and Morty have a bit of a stand-off, with neither willing to fuck the other until someone breaks. Also, Morty wants a gift for Christmas, so Rick decides to deal with two birds with one stone.For 2019 Rick and Morty Secret Santa!
Relationships: Miami Morty/Miami Rick (Pocket Mortys)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	The Gift of Breaking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andersandrew](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=andersandrew).



> For andersandrew! I was your Secret Santa and I hope I was able to capture at least a few of your requests. Trying not to do angst or fluff was difficult, but I did my best. Merry Christmas!

Synthetic beats pumped through the speakers and bright neon green and magenta lights flashed along in time. On the slick, polished wood floor Mortys in rollerblades skated to and from plush dining seats, delivering burgers and slaw and blowing kisses this way and that.

At the center of the room bodies gyrated, all manner of Ricks and Mortys thrusted pelvic regions and wriggled limbs of varying color and texture. There was nothing organized about the gesture, just a compilation of individuals and sets, grinding out their friction, anger, stress. Each element bleeding into the next to create a living, throbbing organism of night life.

Above them, more choreographed, more hypnotic in a singular sense, Miami Morty flung himself artfully against the bars of his cage. His fingers threaded about the metal rods, stroked them suggestively up and down as he arched his back and bounced his ass against the otherside of the contraption. He was like a caged bird, given just enough room to spread his wings. 

A moment later, his hands snapped out to the sides and he braced himself to dip into a crouch that made his rubber shorts squeal. He rolled his head round and round, long dyed blond locks rolled with the gesture, concealed his pretty features just long to tease before he pushed back through the veil with an upward swivel. Then he was on his feet again, hands pressed to the top of the cage, as he wiggled his hips back and forth to the electric waves. 

Morty could feel eyes on him, could see some drunk, witless Ricks holding money up to the rim of the suspended cage. Miami Morty rolled his eyes and ignored them. He wasn’t a stripper, he was an exotic dancer and got his cash from his checks. Some other dancers took tips, but Miami didn’t like to encourage the implication. He wasn’t in it for the money anyway, he just loved to dance. 

This place, where he showed off his skills five nights a week, was an 80s inspired club known as Totally Bitchin’. He’d started working there almost as soon as he’d arrived on the Citadel. Not out of any sense of necessity, Rick could always fire up the old portal gun for anything they needed, but because he liked it. The fashion especially. He had a deep fondness for the tacky juxtaposition of faux fur, lycra jackets, velour slacks, and crushed silk. The memphis pattern could be slapped on any regular tank top and suddenly the article would become an enchanting, almost kaleidoscopic world of geometric coolness.

Miami Morty loved the aesthetics so much that he made a point to rock them at all times. Whenever he was prodded about his unusual taste, he’d just click his tongue and proudly declare, “I-I was just born in the wrong generation, baby!”

To which Rick would always respond with great frustration, “You were born in the only generation mathematically possible for your unique cellular infrastructure. The only time in which your exact culmination of quantum stardust, molecular compounds, and your dad’s filthy sack juice could mingle to create the cosmic impossibility that is you. You dumb sack of shit!”

As for Rick himself, he fancied his position over Morty as that of a manager of sorts, but he was usually off somewhere getting high or drunk when Morty worked the club at night. He was really more of a bouncer than a manager, because he did show up to kick ass if anyone got too gropey with Morty. 

Even still, lately he’d been hanging around the club more often. Morty wanted to believe it was because the holidays were getting close and this was Rick’s subtle nod to family and all that shit. However, he feared his grandfather was loitering for another reason. 

Totally Bitchin’, in addition to playing all the hottest beats from thirty-five separate versions of the 80s, was known for its nachos and sloppy joes, and the overly-easy Mortys that served them. Said Mortys came in the usual rainbow of varieties, but could be easily spotted by their hydro pink uniform shirts and neon roller blades. Rumor had it they’d do anything for tips.

There was one in particular–Mundane Morty as Miami had dubbed him–that served Miami Rick everytime he came for a visit. That night, after delivering nachos, he’d sidled up in the booth beside Miami’s Rick and started making small talk about something inane, no doubt.

Miami tried not to pay it any mind. Rick was his, without question. They kept things casual, so if Rick wanted to fuck a rollerslut, well, that was just none of Miami’s concern.

He reminded himself of this as he grinded off in the cage and turned away to keep from staring in their direction any longer. 

Despite his nonchalance, he was frustrated when he finished up an hour later and found the two making out in the booth. Miami growled low in his throat, thought to grab some random Rick as quiet revenge, but instead opted to saunter up to the table. 

His tanned skin was glistening with sweat and seemed to sparkle when he slammed one hand down on the table to get their attention. “I’m finished!”

The two jolted, and while Rick quickly relaxed when he realized what the sound was, the Morty fidgeted skittishly.

“Jesus, Morty, have a cow,” Rick snickered. Then he reached up and pulled his shades down even though the club was already dark.

“Sorry, am I interrupting? I figured you two were probably about done, but I wouldn’t want Rollerblades over here going all Glenn Close on me if you need another thirty seconds to finish him up,” Miami said smoothly. 

“H-hey, I get that reference! Rude! I’m not, you know, I’m not homicidal. Rick and I were just chatting and–and we weren’t done!” Mundane Morty said with as much conviction as he could muster. 

“We are, we’re done,” Rick said. He threw his arms over the back of the booth and sunk down into a relaxed pose that suggested he was already over this Morty-on-Morty quarrelling.

Mundane tossed a look of confusion at Rick and when he was met with a shrug he huffed and scuffled awkwardly out of the booth. “I’m here on Sundays too,” he said in parting.

“Mm,” Rick replied.

“R-real bright one, that one,” Miami laughed as he slid into the booth beside Rick and leaned across the table to snatch a leftover nacho. The cheese was congealed and cold, but still fucking delicious after such a long set.

“What the fuck was that?” Rick asked.

“It’s almost Christmas. What are you gonna get me?” Miami grinned before knocking back another mouthful of cold cheese and cornchip. 

“Nothing. All holidays are manufactured, celebrations are meaningless, and cock-blocks don’t get prizes,” Rick rattled off. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a half-full bottle of his favorite shit. Birthday cake vodka with its signature pink and blue sprinkle label. Rick guzzled it all the time. He took a few swigs then, and afterwards popped a few lemon drops in his mouth.

Morty winced at the sight, he didn’t know how Rick could stomach the flavor combination. “So what about tonight?”

“I’m going to patrol for a while. I’ll see you when I see you.” With that, Rick stood and took off, leaving Morty baffled and annoyed.

Patrolling just meant he was going to be chasing tail until past sunrise. Miami scoffed in annoyance. He supposed the night was wrapping up early. Rick’s attitude wasn’t new, but Miami didn’t like when it would rear its head with seemingly little warning.

_ Fuck it,  _ Miami decided.  _ I’m going home. _

Home was just a patch of sand down on the beach. Before they’d moved to the Citadel, it’d been Miami Beach, where Morty had gotten his namesake. Where he’d slept in the sun so long his skin and hair had started to turn to gold and he’d liked the look so much he started dying his hair and tanning his skin to keep it up. Now it was Citadel East Beach. Down a ways from the ghetto, just off the part of the city where office buildings dominated. Some could be seen over the attractions of the manufactured pier. The gray reached up over the reds and oranges of lobster huts and the big ferris wheel. Morty still liked it. It felt more like home than anywhere else he’d ever been.

The water was beautiful, practically glowing in the moonlight, and the sand sparkled like his sweat-dappled skin. He’d lost his virginity here, to Rick. The thought of it made his stomach burn, but exhausted his mind. He didn’t want to be one of those Mortys that moped and despaired over whether their Ricks loved them or not. Rick did, Morty knew. The Miamis were one-of-kind–in an emotional sense if not a literal one–it was only boredom they both feared.

Morty didn’t want to think about that either. So he stripped off his shorts, thong, tank top, and fur coat and left them in a heap on the sand. He toed off his sandals and ran naked into the ocean.

He dove in and let the icy water steal his breath and roll over the length of his body. He could feel the water in every cell, the chill of it so cold it burned, stung like a thousand little needles.

He loved how it jolted his system, made him feel alive, awake. Adrenaline pleasures were the blood in Miami Morty’s veins. He dove deep, let the darkness of the ocean fill his wide eyes, let the salt water prickle the skin below his lashes. 

Only when the weight on his lungs grew heavy and painted a line too thin between sweet agony and just plain agony, did he finally breach the surface with a wondrous gasp.

He heaved air back into his lungs and pushed back his long hair. He’d forgotten his headband and thick locks of hair tangled about it, but he didn’t care.

He swam around for a while until his body adapted to the cold. He debated staying longer but a long whistle drew his gaze back to the beach. He could make out a dark figure, the glint of purple light reflecting off sunglasses. Reluctantly he swam back in.

Rick watched his Morty emerge from the sea like a nymph. Nude body glowing in the night light, long hair wet and scattered on his shoulders.

Morty strolled over, pulled his pants back over wet flesh, then shrugged on his coat for warmth but left his tank in the sand. Then he flopped down on his ass and let the sand cling familiarly to his skin like a gritty security blanket. “Hey, Rick. That was the quickest quickie I’ve ever heard of.”

“Hardy har. Nothing good tonight,” Rick huffed as he dropped down to sit beside Morty in the sand. He pulled a raspberry sucker from his pocket and handed it over, a peace offering. 

“Sorry to hear that,” Morty said, clearly not sorry at all. He unwrapped the lolly and popped it between his lips. Got it wet with saliva built up under his tongue and dragged the flavor up and down his taste buds.

“You’re an ingrate.”

“Sorry I’m so good in bed that no one else can please you,” Morty giggled, then bobbed the sucker in and out of his mouth with moist popping sounds.

“Oh, please,” Rick huffed with a roll of his eyes. “I’m just sick of the same shit.”

“Bull.”

“Excuse me?”

Morty gripped the stick of his lollipop, drew it out along a thread of spittle that snapped as he puckered his lips and jeered. “I said, you know what? I said bull. I-I don’t think you could last a week without me. Y-you’d come crawling back.” 

“Because you’re so–soooo great?”

“B-because you’re  _ weak _ , Rick. You play off all these little boys, but you always come back to what’s good. You’re weak for me.” Morty playfully twirled his sucker in the air, as if he’d just uncovered some great truth worthy of being smug about.

“Ohho, look at–listen to you! I’d be just fine, Morty.” Rick grabbed Morty’s wrist suddenly and yanked the boy so hard he dropped his sucker in the sand. Morty nearly tumbled into Rick’s lap, but he stopped just short. “You’re the one that can’t fucking resist me.”

Rick’s breath rolled out over Miami’s face and the boy felt like he was melting. It was frustrating to know how easily Rick could take control of him, but he didn’t mind it as much as he wanted to. 

The two pushed together without either really leading. Their lips pressed softly, then harder. Rick parted his mouth first in invitation. 

Morty expected the old man’s tongue to taste like lemon candy like usual, but what he was met with instead was the tang of sugar rot. That same almost coppery flavor that infiltrated his own mouth if he went too long between sweets without gargling or brushing his teeth. It mingled bizarrely with the hint of raspberry still lingering on his own palette. It was almost wholly unpleasant, near sour, but that wasn’t going to stop him. He held his breath to dilute the flavor and redirected his attention to nibbling on Rick’s bottom lip.

At least until Rick was taking control, pushing back aggressively, all but snarling in Morty’s mouth. It felt good, elicited a soft whimper of defeat as he went limp in his grandfather’s arms. Their tongues probbed in turns, with Morty’s calmly tracing teeth–still mostly real–and the roof of a mouth, ridged with blood vessels. Rick’s moved with more force, the goal of drawing out pleased whines more important than what he was tasting or how.

The old man’s hands slipped under the cheetah coat and rubbed pert nipples, hard and chilly and still damp. He pinched then fled in teasing. He forced his fingers between moist jeans and the supple bubbles of Morty’s ass. He dragged the fabric down and traced the place where he knew different shades of tan lines overlapped from Morty’s different thongs leaving patterns from his time in the sun.

For long minutes they pressed, rubbed, moaned, as the sun started to rise and lit the sea and sky in fiery oranges that overwhelmed the dim lights from the ferris wheel on the pier.

Then Rick thrusted his hips up, a gesture that he was ready to take Morty in the sand, and Morty placed his hands flat on Rick’s willowy chest and pushed back.

“Wha-what?” Rick’s eyelids blinked unevenly and he stared in confusion as Morty crawled away and balled up his tank top as a pillow.

“I’m a little sleepy,” Morty said, barely containing the mischief in his voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Rick clicked his tongue. This was bait. He knew what Morty wanted, for him to give up. To beg for it. That wasn’t going to happen. Rick didn’t beg. “Goodnight.”

That night was the strike of a challenge. Morty had started it and Rick was determined to finish it. Some nights were like a game of chicken where their lips and hands would flutter from place to place, then they’d stop short, go to sleep with cocks aching, but heads swimming with silent victory.

They’d fuck other people, just not each other. However, that only helped them prologue the game. Neither of them was completely satisfied with anyone else, but Morty was determined to make Rick pay for treating him so flippantly. While Rick wasn’t about to let Morty get the better of him.

Even so, Morty was sure Rick would break first, he just had to wait.

Eventually Christmas Eve finally arrived and Morty celebrated it up on stage at Totally Bitchin’. He rolled his hips to a techno-remixed Cher song and showed off his little elf outfit. It was green pleather shorts and a matching crop-top, both lined with white faux-fur trim. The top was laced up the front with red ribbon, and on his mostly blond head he wore a satin and furred santa hat. 

The crowd was thick for a holiday and Morty pulsed his hips to the sound of cheers just as much as the music. Enticed, he decided to pull his signature move. He plucked a sucker from his back pocket and waved it before some onlookers who began to vibrate with excitement. 

He unwrapped it, then slid it in the hem of his shorts. Then he swiveled his hips and spun around, once, twice, then dropped onto his back, spread his legs in a spit, and rolled backwards. As he drew upright he dragged his legs back together and used to them to push himself onto his knees, then his feet. He tossed back his hair and with a smirk he wiggled his hips and showed off the sucker pressed now to his tongue. Applause erupted.

Then Morty felt a pinch at his belt and looked down to see Rick slipping a twenty into his shorts where the sweet had been a moment before.

“Take it off!” Miami Rick jeered.

“This isn’t a strip club,” Morty laughed as he kept on shimmering his hips while his fingertips clasped the stick of the treat he was casually sucking.

“You wouldn’t know it by looking. Thought you weren’t doing The Lollipop anymore? Overdone, you said.”

“Special occasion.”

“Can you get off early?”

“How early?” Morty gave Rick a weary look. He didn’t know what the man was up to, but early nights usually meant errands. Morty didn’t want to run errands.

“Now?”

“I’m busy.”

“It’s worth it,” Rick huffed. He was clearly trying to retain a good mood and Morty was frustrating him. That strained expression was just enough to sway his grandson.

Miami sighed, “Fine.”

Rick made him wipe down and clock out, all the while the old man hovered and took occasional gulps of vodka. “Follow me,” he said when they finally escaped the dark lights, dancers, and disco.

Morty didn’t have much choice but to obey and followed curiously. They took a cab downtown, which was surprising. It let out in front of a nice hotel with clean walls and balconies going all the way up. “Are we meeting the mafia?”

“Shut up,” Rick hissed.

They went inside, skipped the desk, and headed up a long white staircase. Morty half expected to end up buried in a suitcase before the night was out.  _ Oh, Silent Night,  _ Miami thought morbidly.

At last they reached the third floor, turned, took an elevator to the top, went down a hall, and finally Rick stopped before a door. He pulled out a card key, which he slid elegantly in and out of the scanner. The door beeped and Rick pushed it open.

Inside was a massive honeymoon suite. It had a giant bed with red blankets, a table with chocolate and champagne, a bureau which was open and contained a giant television, two smaller dressers, and a window with curtains drawn back to show off the lights of the city below. Morty felt the wind leave his lungs in a rush and his legs felt weak.  _ Am I fucking swooning?  _ he wondered.

What came out of his mouth seemed a lot less impressed. “This th-the best you could do?”

Rick fought back a grin. “Fuck you, y-ya little piece of shit.”

“Is this a present oor–”

“It’s a room. A fucking room, Morty, are you blind?”

Morty put his hands on his hips and glanced around. “I’ve seen nicer.”

“You gonna be ungrateful? I know–I could think of seven or eight Mortys, just you know, off the top of head, that would kill for a room like this.”

“I knew it. This is a mafia thing,” Morty sighed dramatically.

Rick turned and pulled Morty into his arms, settled his hands on the fuzzy hem of those little green shorts. “Cooperate a little, would ya? Aren’t you supposed to be Santa’s little helper?”

Morty tilted his head, let his blond hair tickle his shoulder. “Hmm, you Santa now?” 

“Fuck no, I’m Rick Sanchez, baby! I’ve got twice the sack of Chris Krinklednuts.”

“Gross.”

“Why don’t you taste it and find out?” Rick reached down and unzipped his fly.

Morty bit his lower lip. “I-is this my present or yours, Rick?”

“ _ Why don’t you taste it and find out?” _

Morty chuckled and dropped to his knees, the carpet was remarkably soft. Blowjob carpet.  _ For the cost of the joint it had better be,  _ he thought.

Part of him wanted to play a little harder to get, but a much stronger part had missed his Rick’s body too much to care. His fingers gripped Rick’s belt loops and tugged the pants, and the boxers locked in the snug material, down until Rick’s alert cock and sack sprung free over the waistbands.

He wrapped long fingers around the shaft, but before he stroked or moved any closer, he looked up at Rick with mischievous eyes. “This is me winning. This is you giving in first.”

Rick sneered. “Whatever, just get to it, ho ho  _ ho.” _

Morty rolled his eyes, then his fingers. He drew up to the tip of Rick’s cock and listened, satisfied, to the hiss that left Rick’s lips. Then Morty leaned in and started to drag his tongue up and down the soft flesh of Rick Sanchez’s legendary jewels.

At least, Rick claimed they were legendary, and at the very least Morty didn’t mind sucking the nuts into his mouth one at a time and popping against them with his tongue to drag long, low moans from his grandfather’s throat.

He jerked his manicured fingers up and down Rick’s length, felt the girth bulging under his touch, the ridges and veins came alive at the contact.

Morty’s mouth opened wide and he drew most of the sack into his mouth, bobbed the satin flesh up and down on his tongue, only grazed with teeth to tease.

“Hell, this is a holly-jolly Christmas,” Rick snickered. He was glancing over the rims of his sunglasses, staring down at Morty’s blond head as he gulped like a seagull around the old man’s nards.

Morty just rolled his eyes again and kept going, then switched, let his hand massage the nuts while his mouth licked and kissed up Rick’s shaft. He swallowed the crown, gulped around it a few times.

Rick didn’t mean to, but Morty looked pretty on his knees and it had been too damn long. He shot off, two hard spurts down the boy’s throat.

Morty would have kept going, but Rick pushed the boy’s head back with a groan. “Easy. We don’t need to rush it in the entryway. I paid good money for this place.”

Morty stayed on his knees and watched as Rick pulled away from him and moved to the giant bed instead. As he went he kicked off his pants, boxers, and loafers so he was naked from the waist down. He settled his bare ass on the edge of the mattress and patted his thighs. 

“Come sit on Grandfather Christmas’s lap,” he beckoned.

Morty tossed his grandfather a coy look, but rose obediently. He walked with purposeful slowness before coming to settle on his grandfather’s pale thighs. He straddled them, put his arms around Rick’s neck and looked at him alluringly. “Oh, Santa! I want a great big sausage for, you know, for Christmas.”

“That’s great kid, but you’ve been reaaal naughty,  _ Morty.  _ And naughty boys don’t get what they want. _ ” _

“Oh yeah–” before Morty could even come up with a quip, Rick flipped him hard onto his back on the bed. He bounced on the plush sheets and let out a groan of surprise. His hair fluttered in his face and his green bejeweled sandals went flying off the his feet and the bed. His emerald hat too, flew off, became trapped beneath his form. “Wha-what the hell?”

Suddenly Rick was grabbing both of Morty’s wrists and tying them together with a red satin rope. Then he did the same to Morty’s ankles. Once Morty was immobilized, Rick picked him up, hauled him up the mattress and tied the bound wrists over Morty’s head and to the headboard. The result was the younger man sketched across the upper part of the bed on his back, wiggling his exposed stomach to adjust.

“For me,” Rick hissed seductively.

“What?”

“You-you asked me earlier. If this, this present was for me or you and yeah. It’s for me. Everything is for me, Morty. All the time. Always. Learn it. Love it.”

Morty could feel heat in his face, but he didn’t mind. “You’re a lot more like the Krampus, you know that?”

“I don’t know what that is, Morty. Don’t try to confuse me with made-up bullshit, Morty. I’m gonna torture you until your–until you’re nice or some shit.” Rick whipped off his identifying pink blazer, then his shirt. The act only displaced his sunglasses for a second, but he set them right and climbed onto the bed beside his bound grandson.

It felt strange to still be dressed when he was the trapped one, but Morty didn’t feel like complaining.

Rick reached out a hand and took advantage of Morty’s prone form. He ran his fingers through the long strands of his grandson’s hair. It was rough from salt water, but there was an underlying silkiness to it that Rick liked feeling on his fingertips. “Filthy,” he rasped.

“Excuse me?”

“I said you’re filthy, Morty! Your hair feels like shit.” He curled his fingers and tugged hard so the strands pulled at Morty’s scalp.

The gesture sent a sharp wave of pain and euphoria through Morty’s head. “Ugh! Jesus, Rick, take it easy!”

Rick grinned in amusement. Morty was already wriggling softly, trying to shake the jitters down his body. “Shut the hell up. I know you love it. Look at you tw-twitchin’. You like it.” He gave the threads another hard tug, snorted a laugh, then stroked his hand down to caress the dip of Morty’s neck. He could feel the boy’s heart rate, slightly inclined, and the way he swallowed beneath the contact, eager and nervous.

Rick was glancing over his sunglasses again, preferring to see Morty’s shifting unveiled. His hand lightened its touch, taunted with a loose grip around Morty’s throat before moving to his shoulders. Rick brushed the fabric of the shirt, then grazed the skin there.

Morty drew in a sharp breath and tried to compose himself. It felt good and a little foreign to have Rick touching him so much in so many atypical places. They were much more the rut at anything in the way sort than the slow, gentle caressing type. The way Rick was alternating between soft, airy touches, and the slight tugs and scrape of nails was making Morty excited. Even though Rick hadn’t gotten past his collarbones yet.

Entertained by the ordeal, Rick pulled further onto the bed and straddled Morty’s bound legs so he could use both hands with ease. His cock sat heavy on Morty’s inner thigh, teased the flesh there with mere heat and presence, contrasted almost pearl white and ruddy red against deep tan. 

With both palms he pressed to the sides of Morty’s neck, then dragged down almost suffocatingly, before reaching clothed chest and easing his touch. He pushed the weight of his hands forward into his fingertips and stroked the textured pleather in alternatively rough and gentle passes.

Back and forth, teasingly flittering over pecs and the dip of a lean stomach protected by rough material. 

“Look how perky your nipples are. They’re getting so hard and I’m barely touching you. You’re such a little slut, Morty. I bet you want me to tear your shirt off and run my tongue over your horny little chest, don’t you baby?”

“Y-yeah, Rick...yeah…” Morty’s force was trembling. He was already giving up because he felt like he could, like Rick had already lost, but the old man’s next words rebuilt his resolve.

“But you’re such a nasty little tease. You don’t deserve it. If you want it you’ll have to beg for forgiveness. Do you want it?”

Morty’s brows wove. “I’m not gonna b-beg for it. You want it? Take it.”

“I’m not the one that wants it. Fuck sake, I’m just trying to be a good grandpa, but if you’re dead set on being a little bitch, I guess you’ll fucking suffer.”

Morty swallowed hard, felt his cock twitch with promise. But then Rick’s hands fell just below his ribcage, even the gentle touch made Morty jump a little. “W-wait what are you–ah! Ah ah! Ahahha!”

Rick’s mouth was spread in a huge, toothy smile as his hands spasmed against Morty’s ribs. He tickled the flesh and muscle and felt it react at once. Morty’s muscles tensed and his body twisted. The headboard rattled for the first time as Morty struggled under the assault. He tried to get away but there was nowhere to go and he wasn’t strong enough to break his binds.

“St-stop it, Rick, oh! Oh god! Ahaha!” Miami Morty wriggled and his flesh turned bright red. The color spread like blooming flowers up his chest, along his arms.

“You’re turning into a cherry, Morty. A juicy little cherry. Are you gonna pop?”

“I’m going to–to–”

Then suddenly Rick stopped, let Morty twist, then settle. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. Rick ran his hands more firmly over the ribs, soothing the skin. The pressure was deeply erotic in contrast to the near-painful ache he’d just inflicted. “Did you like that?”

“No! Jesus Rick, I hate being tickled,” Morty said sharply, although the glisten in his eyes and the bulge in his shorts said something different.

So Rick slapped a hand across Morty’s thigh. Hard.

The crack of flesh resounded in the massive room and Morty tossed his head back to shout at the sudden sharp pain. It made his whole leg throb and his cock twitched with fresh confusion.

“How dare you. Little bitch, you should be–should be grateful for whatever I give you,” Rick said, but there was a slyness rather than malice in his voice.

Morty, panting, looked up with a smile. “Oh geez, I’m sorry, Grandpa Rick.”

Rick’s own cock bobbed against Morty’s thigh. “That’s a little better.” 

He took his large hands and clamped Morty’s svelte waist. He squeezed the flesh and felt the firm pressure below. He could pop his grandson if he wanted to. He stroked down instead, slow and tormenting. Locked his thumbs against Morty’s hipbones, just below the edge of the shorts. He applied just enough force to make Morty release a choked groan, then he let go and brought his hands below the ends of the garment, set his fingers just on the soft flesh of thighs. 

He dragged his ass back to Morty’s knees to get a better view. Then he started to tickle the flesh of the inner thighs.

Morty’s lips parted in a gasp that lacked sound, then he started to laugh and thrash. He couldn’t control the twitching of his abs, the curling of his legs that failed to bend under Rick’s weight. His upper body seemed to levitate off the bed. Morty didn’t know if he was aroused, amused, in pain, or dying. His cock throbbed and his skin crawled.

Then, before he could adjust, Rick slapped both thighs hard enough to leave red glowing marks in his wake.

“Ah! Stings!” Morty hissed. 

“Take it, you little whore!” Rick smacked the flesh again, harder. The small amount of excess weight on both legs quavered from the impact. “Looks like Santa isn’t the only with some jiggle!” Rick snorted at his own observation.

Then he stroked the skin, tickled again, slapped. He alternated a few times until the air of the room was palpable and Morty’s hips were twitching up and down needily when Rick was no longer touching him. 

“Nah, ah, Rick,” Morty moaned, helpless and on fire. He was already hot everywhere and his cock was drooling.

“What’s wrong, Morty? You want something, you little slut? You want me to finger you? Fuck you? Tear into you like gift wrap? You gotta tell me, baby. What do you want? Ask. Fucking plead.”

“Ngh…”

“Still so stubborn? Naughty as hell. I guess you still don’t want a present. If you aren’t careful you might not get anything this year,” Rick tsked. He ran a single hand gently up and down Morty’s thigh, teased the tender flesh before rolling his palm up and over the bulge in Miami’s shorts.

Morty’s eyes blew out and his hips jittered, not sure if they wanted to push in or pull away from the pressure. By the time he decided, his hips were thrusting air.

Rick had left the bed entirely and Morty released a whine of disagreement.

“Relax,” Rick chuckled. He pushed his sunglasses to sit on top of his head as he moved to the dresser to Morty’s left. “I brought a few other toys along for the surprise.”

A moment later he pulled out a long, dick-shaped cherry lolly from the bedside table.

“Oh,” Morty breathed excitedly. He could think of a few places he wanted to put that, but his oral fixation caused him to drool like Rick after a bender.

“Haha! I knew your hungry little whorehole couldn’t resist a sweet this thick,” Rick drawled. Slowly he unwrapped the plastic from the sugar, gave the tip a teasing lick, then hovered it over Morty’s lips.

The younger man craned his neck and lashed out his tongue to get a taste. It was the cheap sort of cherry that permeates and leaves skin sticky red, but Morty loved it anyway. The pang of sweetness, the bulge on his tongue, all only made him more eager.

Still he was surprised when Rick very suddenly shoved the first few inches down his throat. He gagged once, then made up for it by bobbing his head. It clung to his lips until he soaked it up enough with saliva to ease the path. Up and down, in and out. He started to whine and Rick leaned over him, pushed the sucker deeper, until all six inches were gliding down Morty’s throat.

“That’s right, just like that. Take my sugary cock! I know you fucking like that. Love the way it tastes, don’t you? Don’t you?!”

Morty tried to nod, failed, and resolved to a whimpering, “Mmmhmm!”

The cherry was already staining his lips dark red like a hooker’s lipstick. Rick was so hard he was ready to blow his load again, but he held back. He wouldn’t fuck Morty until he begged. Really fucking begged.

Morty slurped hungrily. His pride was all twisted up in his excitement and need and his body started twisting. His legs kicked, thighs throbbed, binds strained as he tugged and bounced. The lollipop bulged his throat, forced him to breathe through his nostrils. His head was swimming, the ceiling was like water roiling, converging, and parting. His chest felt tight like he’d been under too long. He felt like he was going to cum, but couldn’t quite push himself over. He could smell and taste cherry, thick and heady like medicine. He was love sick, needed another dose, a stronger one.

Rick could see how the pointed sucking became slowly mindless, could see how hard Morty was contorting. He wouldn’t last much longer.  _ Oral always takes him over,  _ Rick thought in satisfaction.

He drew the candy back in a single fluid motion. Morty gasped and heaved and spittle dripped red down his chin. “Fucking beg for it if you want it, Morty. I can see you’re ready to break.” 

Morty averted his eyes. His body shivered.

“No? Really?” Rick wasn’t sure if he was charmed or annoyed by this level of defiance. Sure they were playing, but they’d been playing too long now and Morty was starting to feel like he had something over Rick and that was simply not allowed. It was one thing to tease, to taunt, to play like they were level, but Rick liked knowing he had some sense of control. He was going to make Morty beg. “Fucking whore, bet you wriggle around for everyone, I should just fucking leave you here if you’re that ungrateful.”

Morty’s eyes snapped toward Rick. It was a toss-up. Sometimes Rick was the sort of man to get fed-up, to really leave. Sometimes he was just a bastard, playing hard to get. But never did Morty have a good radar for which Rick was which on any given day. So despite how well he’d done he snapped, “Don’t!”

“What’s that?” Rick dropped the candy on the dresser top.

“Don’t go, you dick!” Morty growled out around the sugar spit in his throat.

“Naughty, naughty. Christ, Morty. You ever going to learn? Beg for my forgiveness.”

“Don’t go.”

“That’s not what I said. Fine,” Rick released an all-suffering sigh. “One last punishment.”

He leapt back on the bed then and grabbed Morty by the hips. He yanked down those tacky green shorts so the boy’s cock sprung free. He pulled the shorts down to rest at the knees, then Rick flipped Morty onto his stomach. The rope spun with him and left Miami Morty with his partially tanned ass in the air.

Rick traced his fingers down the faint, mismatched white and light brown lines. The lightest ones were the color of Morty’s real skin, the color he’d been when they’d met. It was sexy, like still-virgin territory even though that was far from the case. The sight of them never failed to light up Rick’s stomach with a twisting of need.

Morty moaned and tried to roll his hips into the mattress, but Rick slipped an arm under him and pulled his hips up. Then he drew back his free hand and slapped the round globes of Morty’s ass.

“Aggh!” Morty’s cry was muffled in the pile of pillows. He could barely lift his head because of the angle of his ass and the suspension of his arms. He thought he might drown in the soft downy of them.

“Little bitch!” _ Slap,  _ Rick’s hand came down again, harder. “You’re going to learn who is in charge around–around here!”  _ Slap, slap! _

“Ohhh, oh Rick,” Morty’s muffled voice rang out.

“Such a little whore. Like taking your punishment, don’t you?”

“Nff!”

Rick’s hand rubbed the right orb, squeezed the soft flesh below his hand, before drawing back and cracking it red once more. “Say it!”

“Yes!”

_ Finally, some goddamn progress!  _ “Yes what?”

“Y-yes, I like it,” Morty muttered. His cock was dripping, the fluid ran down Rick’s forearm and made the old man eager to stroke it.

Rick decided to punctuate each next word with another firm strike. “What. Do. You. Like?” Then another for good measure. Then another, until some pinpricks of blood threatened to seep out of Morty’s delicate pores. His ass was already swollen. He was going to be insanely tender.

“Punishment!” Morty shouted at last when he found a breath. “Punish me! Please! God, R-rick! Rick ple–I beg you! Fuck me! Fuckmefuckmefuckme…”

“Fuck that’s what I like to hear.” Rick gave the raw bottom a soft stroke that made Morty hiss, then he turned the boy back over. He adjusted and pulled Morty’s bound legs over his right shoulder. 

Rick’s fingertips parted the pressed, swollen cheeks and he teased the pucker of Morty’s entrance.

“Yes,” Morty muttered, face and hair a mess, desperation painted all over him. “Please! Pl-please, Rick!”

“I hear you, baby. Santa got your letter. You’re getting everything you want today.”

One of Rick’s many gifts was foresight. So when he’d prepped the room in advance he’d left bottles of lube everywhere they might land. He reached under the edge of the mattress and pulled out a vial. 

He soaked his fingers hastily and shoved two inside. Morty was experienced at taking cock, so it didn’t take as much effort as it could have. Still Rick was thorough once he was inside. He moved in and out, slow and random so as not to bring Morty off. He coated the soft, silky inner lining of the boy’s body. 

“Mmm, yeah. Rick. Oh, oh, Rick, yeah I can take it! I can take it, come on!”

“Little impatient slut,” Rick laughed. He added another two fingers, stretched Morty out to fisting width before he finally drew back and started to push his cock inside.

It was only a moment before he was fully buried, and then all the careful pretense fell away. Morty was choking him, strangling him and riding before he could even move his hips. So he met the thrashing with some of his own. He gripped Morty’s hips hard, took control, and started to fuck him wildly.

The hot girth of Rick’s cock plunged in deep and rutted against all the hot, aching places that had been missing him. He could feel the strung out muscles dancing between plush and relaxed and tight and twisting like the body of a snake. 

Morty for his part was full to bursting. Every stroke felt like it was melting his cock, making him weep and burn. “More! More!”

It was probably something like their version of making love, hot and needy and only possible with each other. Yet it was also raw and rough, and given the strung out situation of Morty’s body, he came crashing like the waves in a moment or two. Cum splattered his hips, his overwrought stomach that was quivering, quaking with the force of his eruption. “Rick! Rick!” he chanted in divulged passion.

Rick kept going, kept pounding, unrelenting. He was marking Morty as much as satisfying him. “You’ll cum as much I want you to,” he growled. His hips slammed in and out, Morty’s fingers flexed, nearly purple from tugging at the binds, the bed bounced, squealed. “Merry! Fucking! Christmas!”

The night went on into morning, Rick went on into his grandson, until hot seed was spilling, filing the deepest parts of Morty that no one else would ever be allowed to reach.

Inevitably there came calm, then contentment. Rick untied Morty’s tingling hands and feet, let the boy spread his legs so the cum trapped inside could spill back out. 

“You’re a little cock slut,” Rick laughed. “Hope you liked your present, you holiday conforming little idiot.”

Morty smiled. Maybe he’d won, maybe not. He hadn’t lost and that was good enough. He snuggled up to Rick’s side. “Shit, Rick. I can’t wait to see what you do for New Year’s.”

  
  


  
  



End file.
